All You Need Is Lunch
by whatthefoucault
Summary: Pasta salad, banter, an accidental confession, more banter, and a side of french fries. Awkwardness, and a side of cute. My first foray into the fanfictional world since, like, the 90s. Be gentle. HILSON FTW
1. All You Need Is Lunch

**A/N**: Sadly, I don't own them. I just get to take them to lunch at Denny's and a baseball game one weekend a month, and every other Christmas.

The last thing Wilson had had on his mind as he sat down to lunch with House was fucking up the friendship; indeed, the only things given priority in his thoughts at that moment were the imminent refueling of his body via a half-decent hospital canteen lunch, and the abominable morning he had had that day, which was recounting to his companion in great detail.

"Now, I know this guy was upset, but he had the audacity to say to me that I wouldn't know cancer if it bit me on the bottom. He _said_ bottom! Sometimes I think the internet was invented so people could look up their totally innocuous symptoms and convince themselves they have Hodgkin's, or toxoplasmosis, or their... spine's... wet. Just so they could then come in and hassle their overworked doctors. You know? I swear, days like these, I'd – "

"Give your left testicle to never actually have to deal with the public ever again?" offered House.

"Bingo," sighed Wilson, in what might be best described as bitchy exasperation.

"And they say _you're_ The Nice One, of the two of us. Must've been some morning." House shook his head, taking another bite of rotini and, whilst very much still chewing continued, saying "So, what do you want to order in tonight? Chinese? Pizza? There's that curry place down the road that looked kinda – "

Before he could extol the virtues of Tandoori Palace, Wilson cut him off: "Actually, I have a date tonight, House," he stated, apologetically.

"Oh. Is she coming over? I'll be sure to be on my best behaviour," House waggled his eyebrows playfully.

"No, she isn't, and no, you won't. Given the chance, you'll do the same thing you always do," Wilson grumbled, with no small measure of irritation at the memory of disastrous date derailments past.

"Who, me? Don't be ridiculous!" exclaimed House, holding up his hands in mock defensiveness.

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Seriously, House," he asked, "when will you stop trying to sabotage every attempt I make at a relationship?"

"I will when you finally admit it," House grinned playfully.

"Admit what?" Wilson squinted at House.

"Oh, come on," House lowered his gaze at Wilson.

Wilson's patience had worn as thin as that useless single-ply toilet paper they invariably stock in public restrooms. "What, House."

"You're in love with me," House shrugged.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Wilson rolled his eyes at the suggestion.

"And THAT'S what's sabotaging your relationships with women, not me! It's as plain as the nose on your boyishly charming face. You're in love with me." House smiled sweetly, batting his eyelashes. Normally, their pseudo-flirtatious banter would at most take Wilson's mind off the funless grind of the morning's work, but in this instance, he surprised even himself, saying

"Yeah, I am."

Yeah, he was. He hadn't meant for it to come out that way: somewhere in-between his brain formulating a glib, sarcastic response to House (whose comments, Wilson surmised, were clearly redolent of the heady fumes of freshly-brewed snark and were clearly intended to wind him up, and nothing more) and the words actually escaping his mouth, an uncomfortable measure of sincerity managed to tiptoe in, and lodge itself there. The words hung between them, about as easy to brush off or ignore as a flashing neon chimpanzee that had elected to crouch over their table and begin shouting and flinging pasta salad at the hapless bystanders in the canteen.

Yeah, he was. He had been for a very long time. How had he not figured that out until just now, he wondered?

Wilson could see the mental gears turning in House's head as he processed the response. For an instant, he seemed as though he was very nearly about to respond as though Wilson's response had clearly been in jest, but stopped himself; instead, he sat slack-jawed for a minute, distractedly placing a stolen french fry back on Wilson's plate, while continuing to hold his gaze, searching for trace elements of sarcasm.

"You're not kidding," he concluded, raising an eyebrow.

"No, I'm not," said Wilson; his statement, though brief, were now heartbreakingly heavy with feeling. He had intended to be kidding in the first place, he was certain of that. Now that he had spoken it aloud, however – that he was indeed in love with House – the speech act itself was apparently what it took to make him unequivocally aware of his own feelings. A minute passed in silence as House continued to scrutinize Wilson's response. When he was apparently finally satisfied with the veracity of Wilson's statement, he simply gave a brief nod.

"Okay," he said.

"Okay?" Wilson was confused. What exactly did okay mean? Okay, House was never going to speak to him again; or, okay, House was in love with him too; or, okay, let us pretend this exchange never happened; or something else entirely that Wilson couldn't predict? "What do you mean, okay?"

"I mean, I knew it," House said at last, gesticulating toward Wilson with a forkful of rotini and a mouthful of french fries, "I just didn't think you did."

Cognitive dissonance! Wilson's brain struggled to assign some semblance of logic to his admission. It's not like he was suddenly gay or anything, he thought. Or bi, for that matter. It's not as though he had ever had any inkling of a desire to have gay sex and gay relationships with gay dudes and go dancing at gay clubs for gays. (Not that he went dancing at straight clubs for straights either, he conceded. At least not since college.) It was never that he was attracted to men, not that there was anything wrong with that. It was just that he was in love with House, that's all. There was just _something_ there, he reasoned, that made him want to be with the man, indefinitely.

The rest of lunch was spent in relative silence: every once in a while, Wilson would almost attempt to ask a question, before giving up. Once or twice, when the two made eye contact, Wilson felt overcome by that warmth House always somehow elicited in him, that underscored the sort of exasperation and annoyance that more often than not were the hallmark of his apparent attitude towards his best friend. Yeah, he thought, this was love all right. Now, however, that warmth was accompanied by a nagging fear that he had, in fact, fucked up the friendship.

"House, should – " Wilson cut himself off again. House looked up from his food.

"You know, it'd be a lot easier for me to answer your questions if you, you know, finish asking them." House stared at Wilson, utterly deadpan. Wilson was at a loss for words. And thus, the two men sat, in weird silence, and finished their lunches – or rather, House finished his lunch, then he finished Wilson's lunch, too.

As they stood and began to make their way to their respective offices, it hit him, like a sackful of doorknobs, square in the face. The feeling was mutual. It had to be.

"Your turn," said Wilson, as the two waited for an elevator.

"My turn for what?" if House raised his eyebrow one more time during this conversation, his eyebrow would be touching his hairline.

"_You_ admit it, House," said Wilson. "I mean, I'm right, aren't I? I mean, sure, there's still a good measure of what-a-fucking-ego and the-world-revolves-around-Gregory-House involved here, but that's not the only reason why you've never liked anyone I've been with: it's also because they weren't you."

This set off yet another whirlwind of confusing realization in Wilson, as the truth revealed itself to him, piece by painstaking piece. How long had House known, after all? Why had he never said so?

"Oh, don't look so surprised," House deadpanned.

"Why didn't you say anything?" asked Wilson, his voice a desperate, barely audible whisper. House went quiet, serious.

"What would you have done?" he asked.

"I... don't know." confusion had given way to curiosity, and curiosity to terror, and terror to an almost overwhelming sorrow. House was right, of course. He might well have laughed it off before now, or, worse, run from him. Now that the truth of them had made itself manifest, it all seemed as ludicrous as it was undeniable. The tension now between them was as thick as cold oatmeal, and Wilson was unsure whether they could push through it, into the elevator. Tentatively, he took House's hand in his, squeezing it gently. He let out an audible sigh of relief when House did not flinch at this contact. When the elevator doors finally slid open, the two entered, hand in hand.

Wilson hit the emergency stop button almost as soon as they had begun moving. He turned to face House, who gazed back at him, with uncharacteristic earnestness, searching.

"Shouldn't we talk about this? What do we do now?" asked Wilson, his face rife with nervous confusion.

"You're the one who's been married three times," House smirked, swiftly closing the gap between them. "You tell me."

"Oh," said Wilson, blushing. "Yeah. This is –"

He gazed at the floor, shuffling his feet. He struggled to finish his sentence, but found himself at a loss for a suitable adjective.

"Yeah," said House, pressing his forehead gently against Wilson's.

"So, I guess we should –" Wilson's train of thought was interrupted by House's lips coinciding with his own.

The first word that drifted into Wilson's consciousness – when his brain had recovered sufficiently as to form coherent words again – was _normal_. Not normal in the sense that this had ever happened before, because it hadn't; nor was there, for that matter, anything mundane about the hand pressed tenderly against his cheek, or the placement of his own hands: breath, skin, contact. It was not normal in that there was any suggestion that House was trying to make fun of him: rather, he seemed restrained, almost shy, pleading for validation. It was not normal in the sense that this moment, this simple gesture of intimacy, was anything less than profound. No, not normal. _Comfortable_, thought Wilson. That was the word he was looking for. It felt like home.

The elevator doors had just slid open when the two finally broke apart. Wilson could not help but notice how much his heart rate had skyrocketed. He let out a soft chuckle.

"That was – huh, wow." His head felt as though he were doing somersaults through a field of sunshine and pancakes.

House let out a contented sigh, leaning into Wilson's shoulder. "Yeah. Finally," he murmured. He gazed at Wilson, a little out of breath, radiant with truth and wonder. A moment passed. He smirked, turned, and limped out into the hallway, keeping a firm grip on Wilson's hand.

"So I assume you'll be canceling tonight's date?" he asked, punctuating the question with an exaggerated wink. Wilson rolled his eyes.

"Kinda goes without saying."

"And I assume we can skip the dating and get straight to the relationship? I mean, we're already living together and all."

"Makes sense," Wilson shrugged.

"And I assume that this makes you my girlfriend?"

Wilson stopped dead in his tracks. "Oh, hell no, House."

House continued undeterred. "Because let's face it, honey: of the two of us, I'm obviously the man-one."

"The man-one? What the hell does that even mean? You are an insufferable jerk-ass, you know that?" Wilson complained, raising his arms in protest.

"Yeah, but that doesn't change the fact that you love me," House smiled.

Wilson sighed in exasperation. House carried on.

"Tell you what, just to prove that I'm not totally unreasonable, I'll let you be the man-one after 7pm, and on weekends. Deal?"

Wilson threw his hands up in defeat. "What the hell, you got yourself a deal, House."

"In that case, I'll pick you up after work, you'll get the saag aloo, I'll get the butter chicken, you'll pick up the cheque, and we'll live happily ever after. Later, sweetie!"

And with that, House gave Wilson a playful smack on the bottom, and headed off in the direction of his own office. Wilson couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. He also couldn't help but notice that, in spite of the cane and the bad leg, there was an undeniable spring in House's step as he limped into the distance.


	2. ágætis byrjun

ágætis byrjun (a good beginning)

**Disclaimer**: I own a glittery silver jumpsuit, an out-of-tune piano, and a talking Darth Vader action figure. I don't own these characters, or their show. Which depresses me to no end.

**A/N**: What started out as a simple exercise in writing an amusing romantic B-plot for the (in my dreams) forthcoming _House, M.D._ episode "The One Where House and Wilson Finally Kiss" has, sort of, avalanched. I hope nobody's tired of reading this stuff yet. And yeah, the title's in Icelandic and it's totally lifted from a song. Pretentious, moi? Maybe. Do read on, if you're still here...

_Wake up, love._

As he slowly surfaced, a familiar voice, possibly real but also possibly dreamed, and almost but not quite beyond his awareness, beckoned him gently out of unconsciousness and back into waking life.

The first thing Wilson noticed when he awoke was that his alarm clock had failed to chime. It took a handful of perplexed seconds to pass before he realized that this was because he was, in fact, not in his bedroom at all. Given his current state of undress, this could only mean that he had, in fact, had intimate relations with someone before going to sleep the previous evening. Given that the bed he was in belonged to none other than Doctor Gregory House, it was easy enough to surmise that the two of them had, in fact, you know, done stuff.

As his thoughts struggled to catch up with his consciousness, the events of the previous day caught up to him. House, he remembered. And kissing. And love. As in _love_ love. But he wasn't, and they wouldn't, and this was... but they did, and he was, and it was, oh was it ever, and when had he lost the ability to think in complete sentences, he wondered? Does not... compute... brain... melting...

But it _did_ compute, he realized, as he tried to gather the puddled remains of his brain that had accumulated on his pillow and pour them back in through his ear. It was the fact that it did compute that still didn't entirely compute. It was like answering a question with another question.

He opened his eyes, smiling.

"Morning, Hou – " he stopped before finishing his thought when he realized that the other side of the bed was unoccupied.

Panic set in.

"Shit, shit, shit!" he exclaimed, banging his head repeatedly into the pillow beneath him. House was missing. Perhaps House had begun to rethink the wisdom of their decision to, as it were, take the relationship to the next level. He began to see horrifying visions in his mind of House, alone on a park bench somewhere, brooding. To make matters worse, he envisioned this scene set to a piece of pensive pop music, like the maudlin coda of an episode of _Grey's _Anatomy or some such dramatic television programme. The thought saddened him. Perhaps they had moved too fast. Perhaps they had moved too late. Their courtship had been - depending on how one chose to quantify such things - either one of the shortest or by far the longest he had ever known.

Then he recalled the events that had transpired the previous night. Years of such vehement denial that even he himself was not aware of the depth of his affections for the other man, or what they meant, had culminated in a moment of astonishing clarity; indeed, the day came when the risk it took for the elephant in the room to remain still in the corner became far greater than the risk it took to stampede. And stampede it did, letting out a triumphant roar, scuffing the hardwood floors, leaving a trail of decimated furniture in its wake, and then having sex with them. Or something. Somewhere along the way, Wilson thought, that metaphor had apparently been derailed.

Then he recalled the exchange that had taken place just after they'd come, and just before they fell asleep.

_"Wow. This is weird, Wilson. Isn't it?" asked House, rolling onto his back, leisurely stretching his arms over his head, then turning slightly to regard the man beside him. The honesty Wilson read on House's face was… Wilson felt grateful to get to see it then, to be shown._

_"No," he replied, still basking. "Yes. No. I have no idea."_

_"So, when are you going to ask me to marry you?" asked House, utterly deadpan. "I wonder who I'll ask to be my best man. Not Chase, he's too pretty."_

_"House - " Wilson began._

_"He can be a bridesmaid," House resolved._

_"This is all kind of a moot point, isn't it?" asked Wilson, rolling his eyes._

_"Or maybe we should just cut to the chase and have a big pre-divorce party instead, given your track record and all," House continued._

_"Okay, that's it. I'm going to sleep. Night House," Wilson sighed, pulling the covers over himself and rolling onto his side._

_"I love you too, Wilson," said House._

_When he was certain that House wasn't looking, Wilson closed his eyes, and smiled._

Some track record, he thought, dragging himself into an upright position. Boy wonder oncologist? Big bowl of fuck-up, more like. He had never managed to make it work. He'd lost interest, he'd cheated, or she'd cheated… Amber might have worked, he thought, but who knows where they'd have been in a few years' time, if she hadn't… but there was no use speculating.

Then there was House. There was always House. That was the difference. He was a constant, like the atmosphere, or a vital organ. They had, at times, distanced themselves from one another; but like trying to blot out the sun by holding one's hand in front of it, or the first desperate gasp of air after trying to hold one's breath, House always came back. After all the things they'd said and done to each other, House always came back, as though the two were somehow magnetically linked. This panic he felt now, he surmised, was the fear that if he somehow screwed this up too, House wouldn't come back again. He couldn't say any of this, though, of course: could barely think it, outside of the blurry hours of the morning. Don't screw it up, James, he said to himself.

All things considered, there may well have been nothing one could do to the other that would drive them apart forever, but he had no wish to test this theory. Enough of that, he thought. Where was House, anyway? Concerned, Wilson shrugged into his well-loved McGill sweatshirt and padded sleepily toward the bathroom.

There was music emanating from the behind the bathroom door. Singing. House was singing. In the bath. Wilson soon recognized the song. He wished he hadn't. He opened the bathroom door. He cringed.

"What is love! Baby don't hurt me, don't hurt me, no more..." House crooned, nonchalantly sponging away at his torso with soapy bubbles.

"How do you even know the words to that?" Wilson stared incredulously at House,

"Do you mind?" House started, bringing his hands up to shield his nipples from view.

"Oh come on, it's nothing I haven't seen, like, six hours ago." Wilson said, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

"True," House acquiesced, lowering his arm. He stuck out his tongue at Wilson, and continued bathing.

"Look, we should talk about... stuff." Wilson stared at the floor now, shuffling his feet. Never before had Wilson experienced such a difficult ambiguity with regard to where a relationship stood. There was always a clear delineation between who was a wife, a girlfriend, a one-night stand, a passing fancy, or a midlife crisis. And now? He had no idea. This was going to be mildly awkward, he thought.

"Are you breaking up with me?" House asked.

"No, I just... You weren't there when I woke up this morning, and for a minute I thought maybe you'd..." Of course House hadn't run, Wilson thought. How silly to have leapt to that conclusion. Nevertheless: "Sex changes everything, doesn't it?" Wilson rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably.

House eyed him quizzically. "Are you still James Wilson?"

"No, I'm Tyra Banks," said Wilson.

"Still a doctor? Same birthday? Same hair colour? Same favourite member of ABBA?" asked House.

"Okay, obviously that's not what I - "

"Didn't wake up this morning to find your legs had been replaced by those of a hermit crab, did you?" House's eyes widened in horror. "You're not... pregnant, are you?"

"House, for fuck's sake – " Wilson groaned, facepalming.

"Still my best friend?" House asked, in all seriousness.

Wilson smiled. "Of course," he said, sitting down beside the tub, leaning his elbows on the edge.

"Still in love with me?"

Wilson blushed. "Yeah."

"Then what's the difference?" asked House.

What indeed, thought Wilson. He and House were the most screwed-up people he knew. They were both broken and ridiculous, in their own ways. And he had to admit that they had both done loads of things to each other that would have fucked up pretty much any other friendship. And he was worried about the possibility of, you know, a _relationship_ relationship each other ruining the friendship? How was sex any more of a big deal than, say, the time they practically roofied each other?

But, somehow, it still sort of was. It wasn't just that Wilson most certainly wasn't all of a sudden a gay dude who liked to do gay things and go to the gay meetings and subscribe to _Gay Architectural Digest_. Because he most certainly wasn't, he knew that. He was pretty sure, in any case. Or was it possible, he thought, that he was so closeted, and it was such a massive walk-in closet, that he had gotten lost between the sock cabinet and the rotating tie rack and now he couldn't even _see_ where the door was, even if he did want to come out? Or was it legitimately possible to be so clueless for so long about the potential flexibility of one's own sexuality? But no. But maybe. He had no idea. Maybe it didn't even matter. House didn't seem fazed by it all, just... chipper, like he'd just had a really good night's sleep. But the point was:

"The difference is... sex!" he exclaimed. "We don't – "

"We did, Wilson!" House cut him off. House was right. They did. And it was nice. Really nice. It was like eating a really ripe strawberry or hearing a Sigur Rós album for the first time, times a million, for like two hours, with someone he loved.

"Yes! Skipped straight to the third date AND we were already living together to begin with. What does that make us? What is... this?" Wilson gestured uselessly, attempting to convey his meaning via a series of vague hand signs, before giving up and setting his hands back down on the edge of the bathtub.

"Same as it ever was. You and me. Only with sex, and no girlfriends."

Wilson felt strangely reassured. "I thought _you_ were my girlfriend," he said with a wry smile that he hoped would come across as flirtatious, but that he supposed might have got stuck at goofy.

"Not at 7:30 on a Tuesday morning," House corrected him. "Don't think I forgot our agreement. For the next eleven and a half hours or so, you're _my_ girlfriend, sweetie."

"Are you seriously going to start calling me sweetie?" Wilson asked in mild horror.

"No," said House.

"Good."

House placed a hand on Wilson's, leaning in until their lips met. House grinned playfully.

"So, what's for breakfast, honeybunch?" he asked, reaching for his towel.

Wilson glared at him.

"Babycakes?"

"House, no," Wilson laughed. "Just... just no."


	3. The Hand That Feeds

**Disclaimer**: I own an ill-considered box of reese puffs cereal (it tastes like peanut butter. WEIRD.) I don't own House, his show, or his boyfriend.  
**A/N**: This has taken me way too long to get out there, so big apologies for that. Follows on from those previous stories, so I guess go read those first if you like reading things that make sense. Also, this is pretty silly, and most of it has been written and sitting gathering dust on my hard drive for like a month now. You've been warned.

Wilson had already been up and about for some time when House rolled, half-conscious, into the kitchen that morning. He was wrestling with a solid brick of a malt loaf that refused to produce neat slices no matter how hard he sawed into it with the bread knife, because _someone_ had put it in the freezer without slicing it first.

"How are you awake?" House asked, incredulous as hell.

"How did you think it was a good idea to put the malt loaf in the freezer unsliced?" Wilson replied.

"Just consider it your morning workout;" House yawned, trying to aim the coffee pot in the general direction of his mug as he poured, with moderate success. "Rock-solid malt loaf's cheaper than a gym membership. Morning, Wilson."

Wilson grumbled quietly to himself, trying his darndest not to mind when the bread knife skipped, leaving him with an uneven half-slice of bread to try and make toast out of without becoming electrocuted. Such was life with House: a little chaotic, a little disorderly, but never a dull moment. Wilson was – dare he say it – decidedly chipper about the turn their relationship had taken some weeks previous. Hitherto, he may well have imagined that he might one day meet some nice new lady friend, and House would once again grudgingly relinquish his residency _chez_ Wilson; now, however, he was beyond pleased not to have to choose between friendship and relationship again. It was like being asked if he wanted the pecan pie or the crème brûlée for dessert, and saying yes to both. Indeed, it was precisely like an abundance of dessert, thought Wilson: messy and outrageous and comforting and the kind of thing one never tires of at the end of the day. _What, me a glutton for punishment?_ he thought. _Heavens, no._

"Morning, House," said Wilson, giving House's arm a light squeeze as he passed him.

"So... what are you up to today?" asked House.

"My... job?" Wilson paused for a moment, before acquiescing to the unspoken request that he respond in kind by asking: "You?"

"Same." House ripped open a packet of cinnamon Pop Tarts and started to munch on one, untoasted. "I'm really getting bored with trying to find creative ways to avoid Cuddy."

Ah. Cuddy. The awkwardness. He wondered if Cuddy knew that he and House were, you know, _special_ roommates.

"Yeah. That. So does she know we're...?" Wilson lowered his gaze meaningfully toward House, pointing to himself, then House, then himself again, raising his eyebrows.

"You mean..." House lowered his voice to an almost imperceptible whisper, eyes darting about the room as though in a paranoid search for eavesdroppers, "sweetie-pies?"

"Yes House. Sweetie-pies," grumbled Wilson, rubbing his temples in an attempt to avert his oncoming headache. "Does she know?"

"No, does _your mom_?" asked House, leaving a puddle of sarcasm on the floor beneath him.

"Well no, not yet, but she – that's beside the point. I think we should probably tell Cuddy about... us, before she hears it from a third party, don't you think?" asked Wilson.

"It's not really any of her business, is it?" asked House, mouth full of pastry crumbles and crunchy frosting.

"Well, given that the two of you have a, a history – "

"Ancient history," corrected House.

"You broke up like three months ago!" exclaimed Wilson, exasperated.

"So? _You're_ not exactly Mr. Disclosure, are you? How many times did I only accidentally find out you'd been dating somebody? Hell, do you phone up all your exes every time you start seeing somebody new? 'Oh hi Julie, just a heads-up to let you know I've started banging one of the lunch ladies from the canteen! Yeah, the redhead, how'd you guess? She's got this cute little – '"

"This is different, House," Wilson cut him off before House's hand gestures could become any more embarrassingly graphic. "None of my exes are also my boss. You work in the same building and see each other almost every day. You don't think she'd feel a little betrayed if she had to find out about us from, I dunno, Foreman?"

"Who says it's any of Foreman's business either? You two don't have a... history, do you?" House's tone was decidedly dripping with mockery. Wilson had to grant that his decision to be upfront about a relationship was somewhat unprecedented in recent years, but felt his decision was justified: after all, anything to encourage the least possible amount of workplace hostility, he thought.

"Har har," he deadpanned. "I just meant, it's kind of inevitable that the people we work with are going to know, and it's not like it's some sort of guilty secret, so I just thought it might soften the blow a bit if one of us were to tell Cuddy first. I'll do it."

"You'll do it? I'm the one with the... ancient history," House observed.

"She's a lot less likely to assume you're screwing with her for laughs if it comes from me," countered Wilson.

"You know, in that case, maybe I should – "

"House, don't." Wilson gave House his most pleading look, laced with a little flirt and as much attempted eye sex as he could muster at that time of morning.

"Fine," House acquiesced. It was decided. That morning at work, Wilson would take a short trip to Cuddy's office, have a brief chat, and it would be done. Easy as pie. What was the worst that could happen?

Wilson straightened his tie, adjusted his jacket, then straightened his tie again. Then fixed his hair. Again. This would be easy, he thought. He just had to have a word with the Dean of Medicine, his colleague and friend, to let her know in no uncertain terms that he was doing her ex-boyfriend, who also worked for her. Yeah, this would be easy. What's the worst that could happen? Certainly she wasn't so volatile and small-minded as to take it badly. But if she did... he shuddered to think. Hell hath no fury, and all that. Best not to dwell on the matter. After all, it was inevitable that she and House would at some point start seeing other people, and they were all adults, weren't they? He knocked on Cuddy's office door and poked his head in, sheepishly.

"Wilson, what can I do for you?" Cuddy looked tired.

"Can we talk for a minute?" asked Wilson.

"We _are_ talking," said Cuddy.

"I know. I mean, about something personal?" he said, shuffling his feet.

"Yeah. What." Something about Cuddy's overall attitude said at once that she didn't have time for this shit, and that this was clearly not the best time he could have chosen to have a word.

"It's about House," he said.

"Oh God, what has he done now?" she asked, rubbing her temples.

"Nothing. It's just, I mean, I guess I thought you should know, given that you two have a history – "

"Ancient history," she said, cutting him off.

"Why does everyone keep saying that? You broke up like three months ago!" exclaimed Wilson, thoroughly confused by the whole thing.

"Look. Wilson, we went out, it didn't work, we broke up. I'm over it. What's your point?" Cuddy glared at him. Yup, thought Wilson, this definitely wasn't a good time to have a chat.

"Before it gets round to you via the hospital grapevine, I thought you should know he's seeing somebody."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Okay... well, just between us, not that it's any of my business, but do you think it's serious?"

"I wouldn't be telling you about it if I didn't think it was," Wilson smiled a little.

"Hmph. Okay. There's just one thing I don't understand," said Cuddy. "I can't imagine House was too chickenshit to tell me himself, so why did he send in his lackey to tell me he has a new girlfriend?"

"Because... I'm House's new girlfriend," mumbled Wilson quietly.

Cuddy blinked. "You have _got_ to be fucking kidding me."

Wilson shrugged. "No kidding!"

"Look, this is exactly the kind of immature bullshit I'd expect from House, but – actually no, come to think of it, I expect it from you too. But I mean, as far as playing-stupid-head-games-with-Cuddy goes, this is the saddest mindfuck you guys have ever come up with," said Cuddy with an exasperated sigh, returning her attentions to a file folder on her desk.

"Lisa, this isn't a – whatever. Believe me, or don't. Just thought I'd do you the courtesy of letting you know, instead of hearing it second hand from, I dunno, Nick," said Wilson.

"Who's Nick?" she looked up from her paperwork.

"You know, Greek fellow, the paramedic?"

Cuddy stared blankly.

"The one with the lazy eye?" he offered.

"Oh, _that_ Nick. What does Nick have to do with any of this?" she asked.

"Nothing, I just – "

"Is _Nick_ House's new girlfriend too?"

"What? No! I just meant, oh, never mind."

"Well, that went poorly," sighed Wilson, sinking into his chair.

"What, did she fire you?" asked House, placing a preemptively supportive hand firmly on Wilson's shoulder.

"What? No! No, she just – " he broke off, momentarily distracted by the gentle pressure House was applying to his tension-wound neck. "Oh hell, that's... keep, keep doing that. No, she just... didn't believe me."

"Huh." House had stopped squishing Wilson's neck. House was thinking. "Probably could have predicted that, I guess."

"Well, that's that I suppose. Can't say we didn't try," Wilson shrugged, taking a sip of his now-cold coffee. A moment passed in resigned silence.

_Vvvvt vvvt vvvvt_, went House's phone, which skitted across the surface of the desk.

"Text, hang on," he said, flipping it open. "It's Cuddy."

House brought the phone around, displaying the text to Wilson. It read:

From: Cuddy

_WTF_

"Told you it went badly," said Wilson.

House was too busy composing a response to Cuddy to acknowledge Wilson's statement with anything more than a small grunt. As he hit send, he said:

"I have a plan," House announced. "Leave everything to me."

"I have a bad feeling about this. Should I have a bad feeling about this?" Wilson regarded House with mild foreboding.

"You'll enjoy this. Trust me," said House, a decidedly mischievous glint in his eye.

Why this last statement filled Wilson with utter dread, he could not fathom.


End file.
